


losing your direction

by softshelltaako



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, brief mention of jon's dad, related to the fight not the suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softshelltaako/pseuds/softshelltaako
Summary: Jonathan copes with most problems by ignoring them, but some things can't be ignored. Some things demand to be acknowledged. Some things are too much for Jon to handle.





	losing your direction

You're not big on confrontation.

You're well aware that probably comes as a shock to most, considering your sarcastic nature and complete apathy, but it's the truth. For all you can give, you'd rather silently receive. It's how you handle your dad when he's a little too drunk and a little too frustrated, how you handle assholes on the bus or slumped against the wall outside of school, the kind of kids who get their rocks off asking when you're gonna knot the noose. In your experience, nothing is the best response - obviously Sock is the only exception, because all of your nothing wasn't nearly enough to drive him away.

Sometimes, though, the silence doesn't satisfy. They want more, riled up and chomping at the bit. They want to see you burst, see you lose it, push you past your breaking point. So when your blaring music is abruptly cut off and a fist curled in your hoodie spins you around, you're already well aware the usual "nothing" isn't going to cut it.

The knuckles against your nose catch you off guard and you see stars instantly, Sock's panicked shriek at your side sounding far off. You reel with the impact, stumbling backwards before hunching over, a hand flying instinctively to your face. Your vision swims but the scarlet on your fingertips is clear enough when you pull the hand away.

You don't like confrontation but when it's inevitable, you do what you have to do.

It only takes a moment for you to leap forward, slugging relentlessly at the upper half of your aggressor. He sounds surprised, the sound masked by Sock's panicked cries. You don't have the time to look away but he seems absolutely frantic. If you could turn, he'd probably be flitting anxiously around you, grabbing uselessly at your coat, trying desperately to drag you away. The kid gets a solid swing in at your ribs and it knocks the air out of you, but you come back twice as hard. He quickly abandons his aggressions, reverting to full defense mode to shield his head with his forearms. The whole situation almost seems manageable and you consider backing off until another fist hits you square in the jaw.

You topple to your knees in the snow - had the snow really gotten this high in just a school day? The jeers and shouts of students gathering around the fight amplify the ringing in your ears. For a moment, you can clearly hear a voice calling your name.

"Jon! Jonathan, please, let's go! You're bleeding everywhere!"

It's only a second before the bustle of the scene swallows up the shrill pleading. It registers that another asshole kid must've joined in as a hand in the front of your shirt drags you to your feet before something pummels you square in the stomach. You gasp for breath, feeling nauseous, as another swing nails you under the chin. The hand relinquishes its grip and you lose your footing again, catching sight of your own blood spattering the powdery blanket over the schoolyard. You go from your knees to your stomach when a swift kick catches you in the spine. The cold stings your face and a groan escapes your lips when the kicks keep coming. Your backpack does little to protect your sides and you want to stand, need to stand, need to fight back, but your legs have turned to the slush lining the streets and your head is murky and full of cotton. Pain dulls to a steady throb rather than sharp stabs. You could almost fall asleep, although you might just be passing out.

You don't know how long it takes for them to back off. The noise fades away eventually. Nobody bothers to help you to your feet. It might be minutes and it might be hours before you drag yourself into a sitting position. Your clothes are soaked; you can feel the pinpricks of cold pinching at your skin. There's a sizeable stain of crimson where a face-shaped imprint lays in the snow.

And then there's Sock.

He looks absolutely distraught, tears streaking his transparent face. Hovering crosslegged in front of you, his hands flutter nervously to your face. Maybe it's phantom pain because you know from experience it takes extraordinary effort for Sock to maintain any sort of corporeality, but you can swear your feel his fingertips anxiously grazing your skin, trying to wipe away the blood and check for damage. His hands should be cold, but your entire body is far too numb to notice that detail. It takes all of the energy in you to muster a smile, half-hearted and weak with blood lightly staining your teeth. Sock only seems to grow more unsettled.

"Are you okay?" are the first words from his mouth, and he seems to realize how ridiculous that question is as he purses his lips, butterfly fingers stuttering on your cheek before drifting into his own lap. "I mean, stupid me, obviously not, look at you, but..." He trails off.

You... can't fully comprehend his concern so you decide, in your impaired state, to simply ask. The words come through gritted teeth as you force yourself to your feet, a slow and laborious process not without significant pain. "Why are you - _fuck_ \- so worried? If anything, you should have been cheering 'em on. They share your ideals."

" Ideals?"

"Trying to get me to pop a bullet through my skull."

If demons could go pale, Sock would be white as a sheet. You see it in the way his features fall, eyes growing wide. As if he hadn't noticed all the classroom taunts, kicked chairs, smacked lunch trays, jeers and calls. He'd been hanging around long enough to bear witness to a considerable stock of offenses.

"Jonathan, I-"

"I'm fine. Gotta find my headphones."

After you dig them from their shallow, snowy prison, shaking the ice chips off and praying they aren't too waterlogged, you set off for home. You're still feeling sluggish, so your steps shuffle through the slush with some difficulty and every step makes your head throb, but you eventually make it. You drag a sleeve over your face to try and clean up any excess blood, just in case your mother happens to be lingering in the living room when you enter, but the house is blissfully empty.

After dumping your soaked attire in the hamper and changing it out for sweats - your back is turned but it feels like Sock's eyes never leave you - you trudge into the bathroom to examine the damages.

Yeesh. Not as inconspicuous as you had hoped. A significant bruise already arches over your nose, dried blood still staining your nostril and trailing towards your split lip. Bruises dot your jaw and cheek and as you lean in for a closer look, your side aches. Hadn't even thought of that one. You brace yourself with a breath before lifting your shirt to reveal a mosaic of purple, blue, and black stains adorning your torso. Your eyes flicker to Sock's reflection, floating silently behind you. There's something like guilt on his face. It makes his eyes look sad and dark.

That night, the room is dark and cold. Curled uncomfortably on your bruised side under a thick duvet, you can't stop tracing your nails up and down the length of your forearm. They follow the paths of tendons, jutting through your skin, digging in just slightly every now and then. Your head feels like a ton of bricks but you can't sleep. You force yourself to your feet. Maybe the pain is keeping you awake; an Advil will knock you out.

Resolved, you pad across the freezing floorboards to the bathroom, squinting when the lights buzz to life. The bathroom cabinet swings open easily. You crouch gingerly down, grab the pill bottle, tilt a few into your hand.

And you pause.

Something grips you, keeping your gaze on the bright orange tablets piled in your palm. Small and menial, everyday things. Your eyes flicker to the bottle. Filled with hundreds of the things. _Enough_ , your brain murmurs decisively, but you don't know what for.

The open cabinet catches your attention. Bottles of cleaner, bleach, household chemicals. Your dad's shaving kit, stocked with a more-than-sufficient collection of blades. You once again don't stop to ponder that thought for too long.

You can't help but force your eyes up, to the mirror. Bags paint an exhausted picture on your face. The bruises stand out in stark contrast to your pale skin. Your fingers tighten in a fist around the pills. You can't stand to look at your own face anymore, nausea and loathing bubbling in your stomach, so your gaze falls to your clenched hand.

_It's easy_ , your brain says.

_What is?_ you wonder silently, although you already know the answer.

_Do it._

You're frozen in place. Your eyes are burning as you stare at your fist.

_Do it._

Your fingers are trembling. Slowly, they open to reveal the collection of orange. The tiny tablets feel like a thousand pounds.

_Do it._

Your breath catches in your throat. You can hear the blood pounding in your ears. Your body tingles all over, electricity races through your nervous system. The moment hangs on some unspoken precipice.

You shove two pills in your mouth, swallow them dry, drop the rest in the bottle and go back to bed.

In your room, something feels off. You move towards your bed before realizing Sock is sitting in the middle of it.

"Can I help you?" Your voice is gravelly and tired, heavy with the weight of the thoughts you can't shake, shaking like the rest of your body.

"I just wanted to ask you..." The demon seems unable to get the words out. In the dark, you watch his bright eyes follow your movements as you scratch at your arm. Your skin feels too tight on your body. You don't like the concern in his eyes when he looks at you. "Is it... Are you..."

You sigh in frustration, but the effect is lost when your voice trembles, "Spit it out."

"I don't want you to kill yourself."

Confusion must be clear on your face, because Sock sits up on his haunches, and it strikes you that the mattress dips just slightly with his weight. He must be working hard to sustain a physical form, but the exertion doesn't even show on his face. "What?" you croak, even though you heard him, because you just need some sort of sound to fill the silence.

The distress from earlier seems to be creeping into his features. "I know it's my job and I know I'm gonna get totally reamed if I fail but when I watched those kids kick the shit out of you and I watched you lay here in the dark and I knew you were thinking about it-" He chokes on that one, looking down at his hands where they tug anxiously at his skirt. "And then just now, when you went to the bathroom, I just... I thought about it, and I don't want it. You don't deserve it. And if knowing it's even on your _mind_ gives me this awful feeling, I don't wanna picture what it'd feel like if you did it."

He looks up at you again and his eyes are wide and wet and something in you twists but you can't deal with this right now. You don't want to think about consequences. You don't want guilt and conflict piled onto your disaster of a decision-making process. Clinging to bitter habits and classic defense mechanisms, you try to bark, "So I'm just supposed to follow your orders now?"

There are hands, small and cold and clammy, gripping yours when a panicked voice cries, "If it means you'll stay alive, then yes!" It's dark and you know Sock doesn't need to breathe but you can hear his short, shallow pants over the wind battering your windows, can feel the heat blowing up at your chin. Your legs don't want to support you anymore, so you let yourself fall to sit on the edge of your bed. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly, but nothing comes out. Your eyes burn and then you're fucking crying and you hate it, hate the feeling, hold your breath for as long as you can until some ugly, rattling wheeze bursts out of you and you hate yourself more than anything for breaking down like this.

Your hands grip each other so tightly in your lap you're sure they're bone white and your whole body seems to slump, like a thousand pounds were just piled onto your back. It's a feasible possibility. Blatantly ignoring suicidal urges for months can do that to a person.

Shaking hands settle on your forearm and you flinch instinctively, curling in on yourself. There's a moment of pause, hesitance, before the hands settle lightly on your skin again and it takes all you have to try and control your ragged breathing. "Jon..." There's breath on your neck and arms linking through yours and it's pitch black but all you can see before your eyes is flickers of bright orange. It's too much, all of it is too much to handle, but at the same time...

At the same time, the touch, the breath, the sound. It keeps you anchored. It's a tangible reminder that you are not alone in this dark, cold room. It's a reminder that if you slip away to the bathroom and let yourself loose at least one person will know. One person will see you.

One person who can't stop you, if you really tried, but all of a sudden you don't feel like trying anymore. You feel like flopping down in your bed and yanking the blanket over you and letting yourself be anchored by the body at your side.

So you do that. There's a tiny gasp of surprise but then there's two sets of uneven breath under the covers and one set of hands resting unsurely on your chest. You grab the hands between your own and they feel surprisingly warm. Maybe you're just that cold. Maybe he's trying extra hard.

There are so many things wrong - with this, with you, with the _both_ of you, with the whole situation - but you focus on hands and breath and the shifting of the mattress as his body wiggles closer to yours and ignore the rest. You focus on the press of a forehead against your own, comfortable weight, and murmured words you can't make out but can pretty confidently pinpoint as reassurances. You focus on those things and let the rest fade out, if only to appease him. If only for tonight. If only for now.

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the lyrics to "genesis" by armors
> 
> i crosspost a lot of stuff from my wattpad @fugaci0us and i also have a twitter @shirosprincess so come yell at me! comments, critiques, and requests are always appreciated :-) thanks for reading!


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